The weight of the night hung heavy inside the bunker—tangled sheets, an unspoken vulnerability shared, and Sam holding you close as if to make sure you were still here, still real.

You weren't sure how long it had been since it all ended. Time seemed to lose meaning. But Sam didn’t rush anything. His warm hands gently traced circles on your back as you lay against his chest, your body still recovering from the intensity of the night.

Every time you shifted, his fingers adjusted their grip, soft but firm, making sure you knew he was there. You could feel his heartbeat steadying under your ear, the slow rhythm a comfort.

“Hey,” Sam murmured, his voice low, like he wasn’t quite sure how to say the next words but needed to anyway. “You good?”

You nodded. You didn’t need to say anything more; Sam was always so good at reading you.

He shifted, pulling you tighter against him as he let out a quiet breath. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, the words more of a promise than anything else.

“Want some water?” Sam asked, his thumb brushing across your cheek, wiping away a stray tear that you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

You nodded again, your throat dry from everything. He moved slowly, like he had all the time in the world, before returning with a glass of water and handing it to you with gentle hands.

He watched you drink, and when you finished, he set the glass aside and adjusted you in his arms so that you were resting comfortably against him again.

His fingers, now softly threading through your hair, stroked the back of your head slowly and reassuringly, like he was grounding you, making sure you were still in this safe space with him.

Sam was always so tender, so careful. His touch never rushed, never asked for anything more than what you were willing to give.

“I’m proud of you,” Sam said quietly, his voice full of that quiet admiration you loved so much. “You did amazing. Always do.”